Cold and wet as a slattern's kiss
the darkened streets contrived a mist
it touched my lily cheeks so rare
(and left a certain dampness there)
that later caused an irritation
leading to this remonstration:
Go not into the dead of night
without a handy rag in sight
to wipe away the fog of gloom
or redness on your butt shall bloom
and thy lament shall be mine own
(endeth, here, my humble pome).